According to YES (11 page)

Rosie smiles ‘isn't this amazing?' and gives thumbs up to him.

Teddy smiles ‘wow, phenomenal,' back with corresponding thumbs up.

Rosie closes her eyes to disappear into it. Teddy doesn't close his eyes, he wants to watch her in this acutely intimate moment as she abandons herself to the music. He doesn't know females like her. She is unashamed and sensual and real.

And drunk.

She is the level of drunk where the edges between music and meaning are blurred, where you can believe you ARE the music and everything it speaks of. In this case, the conversation is thrummingly evident. This intercourse is about intercourse. No doubt. The music and the insistence of Marvin Gaye begin to work their effect.

‘I'm hot just like an oven,

I need some lovin' …'

Rosie throws her head back and smiles. How often did this song work its magic for Marvin Gaye himself? Did it succeed a hundred times? Did Marvin make a thousand conquests? A million? Teddy sees her throat in the moonlight, and he is baffled by why it seems as if he's stolen a glance at something supremely private. He sees her throat every time he sees her. It's not a secret, she doesn't cover it up. Yet here and now, in this light, and urged on by the powerful coital message of this throbbing song in his ears, her neck, flung back like this, is irresistible. Gorgeous and inviting. Christ, she is really … sexy …

‘And baby, I can't hold it much longer,

It's getting stronger and stronger.'

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He suddenly fears she might see into him, and he looks away, but only for an instant. He looks back. Her gaze is unwavering, honest, inviting.

‘And when I get that feeling,

I want sexual healing …'

The music is winding its way into their souls, and grinding its way into their groins. Teddy lets his eyes wander from her face, down past that lovely throat he is so desiring to nuzzle, to her cleavage, which is visible at the top of the buttons on the front of her dress. Is he mistaken? Has she arched her back a little bit so that her coat falls open? Is she allowing him to see? He looks back at her eyes to see if she is letting this happen, and he knows straight away that yes, she most certainly is. Teddy has never had permission like this before, and it's thrilling, his
breathing starts to change to shallow and often. His breath synchronizes with the beat of the song.

‘Let's make love tonight

‘'Cause you do it right.'

He feels his teeth tighten and he's aware of the twitch of life kindling awake in his lap.

Rosie can see that his face has changed, he has the unmistakable look of a focused, aroused man. Even his nostrils are flaring slightly. His chest is moving fast, his eyes locked onto hers.

‘I think I'm capsizing'

The waves are risin' and risin'.

Rosie observes small beads of sweat on Teddy's brow, and as one rolls down his temple, she follows it over his cheekbone, and down to his jaw just below his ear, on the edge of his stubble, where she notices his skin is particularly smooth. He is jigging his legs excitedly, which is rocking his whole body. He moves his hand from his knee, up under his sweatshirt, under his t-shirt, and he begins to rub his belly. Rosie sees this and looks at his mouth, his lips, his lovely lips. She automatically lifts her fingers to lightly touch her own lips, unconsciously hinting what she wants to be doing to him.

‘You're my medicine,

Open up and let me in …'

Teddy wants her. He wants her urgently, so much so that he's forgotten to be shy or awkward or scared. He just knows.

Then, zip, the music finishes and Rosie is jolted out of it. She
stands up, takes off her headphones and turns off the iPod, suddenly all school-marmish, ‘Right, so you get the idea. Well done. You pass.'

Teddy stands up too and takes his headphones off like her. Rosie turns to go, but Teddy steps closer, to stop her. He takes her shoulders and leans down to kiss her. In the fug of her inebriation, Rosie leans back to avoid the moment which she knows is strange and forbidden.

Teddy softly says, ‘Please?'

Rosie honestly doesn't know what to do. They seem to have travelled to a different, new place together in the last three minutes. This is unfamiliar, uncharted territory. She searches his face to find him searching hers. For him, the moment is now, just as she said it would be at the end of that song.

He repeats himself, ‘Please. I'm so useless … please.'

She makes the decision, and pulls him in towards her.

When Rosie wakes up in the fuggy tent, it's still dark, but only just. There are threads of pink morning light piercing the gloom outside. She is inside the sleeping bag, with a naked Teddy wrapped around her. As she gradually surfaces, flashes of the night come tumbling back to her …

Teddy's warm hands seeking out her breasts. The pulling off of clothes, the catching of sleeves on wrists. His kisses up her
spine. Her hands in his hair, his ears in her mouth, her face on his stomach, his fingers in her fingers, his gentle bites, his cold toes, his warm penis, his moist mouth. Her guidance to where she wanted him most. His coming in. The shudder of him as he entered there for the first ever time. The panting on each stroke, the suckings, the nippings, the grunt, the writhe. The delightful weakness and the sticky soaked bed. Her hands on his face in the dark, discovering how wet, kissing his tears, touching his smile, hearing his gratitude in her ear, over and over, ‘Thank you. Thank you. I love you.'

And all the thousands of kisses, so freely, lovingly given. And then the gluey deep sleep.

And now.

The morning.

The temples pounding. The dry acrid mouth. The smell of armpits and breath and sex. Christ. It really happened. Look at him lying there all … ruffled … and stunningly lovely. So flawless, so young. Rosie inches herself out of his sleepy grasp, pulls on her knickers and dress, unzips the tent quietly, and clambers out. It's a fresh morning, with more light tipping up every passing minute. She walks to the edge of the roof, pulling on her wellies, and looks out over the emerging, greening park towards John Lennon, and she hums, ‘Beautiful Boy.' She flings her arms wide to ride the delightful breeze for a fleeting moment before she knows she's surely going to feel horrified in retrospect.

Rosie hears the zip of the other tent and a croaky call. ‘Rosie!' It's Three, just awake and sleepily bewildered. She runs over, gives him a hug and whispers, ‘Wake your brother up, c'mon, let's go and get breakfast. Keep the noise down, Teddy's still asleep.'

Doors are rebelliously wide open all over the apartment. There are four pairs of varying sized wellies standing messily in the hallway, radiating dirt. Gardening clothes and coats are on the hooks. Seeing this welcome sight and smelling the earthy smell is Thomas in his office, visible to all. He is sat with his electric guitar on his lap, attempting to master the opening riff of Chuck Berry's ‘Johnny B. Goode'. The window behind him is open and he is enjoying the breeze on his neck. It's that same breeze that is swirling past him, on out into the hall, around the soily boots and bobbing back in to his office, flicking his nostrils on its way back out of the window, leaving him with the faintest whiff of garden life, a rare treat in this stale city flat. That, the sunlight and his guitar are cheering him up more than he thought possible. Such simple pleasures. Plus, of course, his snatched rememberings of Rosie-related lust. They certainly contribute to his contentment. Closing his eyes and daydreaming about her has become his favourite
pastime. He has to be careful not to smile too much, but the fact is, he's nearly bursting with it, and better still, she's agreed to more. So he has the
double
delights of memory and anticipation. He feels desired, and loved, and mighty. It's just a shame that he's not as accomplished at ‘Johnny B. Goode' as he is in his guitar-hero fantasy. Still, he's giving it a go. And he's loving every minute.

There is the distant sound of laughter coming from Red and Three's room where Rosie and the boys are trying to paint sketches of their garden designs, but seem to be mainly painting each other. Their giggling travels on the breeze up the corridor. Teddy has had a shower, dressed and is now checking himself out in the mirror. Does he look any different? Because he feels MASSIVELY different. The person he sees in the full-length mirror is entirely grown up, someone to be reckoned with, dare he think it, an adult? He is amazed at the difference a simple, natural human act can make. Everything before last night was chapter one, Teddy the boy. Everything after today is chapter two and beyond, Teddy the man. Are his eyes deceiving him, or is he just that tiny bit taller even?

Armed with his new height, Teddy sets off to the kitchen to pillage the fridge. He is ravenous. Of course he is. Men are. En route and with no acknowledgment whatsoever, he passes a formal photo on the wall, of his own high school prize day, where he was presented with an award for ‘Most Motivated
Student' last year. Here he stands, between Kemble and Natalie, and all of them are grinning, but none of them are really smiling. Teddy hates this photo and couldn't believe that his grandmother wanted to frame it. Little does Teddy know that the same sophistry is evident in almost every photo Glenn has chosen to have adorning their walls. Her corridors of pretend.

He finds Kemble sitting at the kitchen table munching on raisin toast. Iva is flitting around wiping surfaces, but she knows enough to stay out of the fractious father and son energy field.

Ordinarily, Teddy might have chosen to stay quiet and avoid any confrontation, but today he's different, today he is bolstered by a couple of degrees of new-found confidence.

He helps himself to a tumbler, and opens up the conversation, ‘I had a call from Mom.'

Kemble looks up at his son, and sees nothing but contempt in his eyes.

There is a pause.

Teddy tries again, ‘I said Mom called.'

‘Yep. I heard.'

Teddy stands his ground. In every way. He literally stands opposite Kemble, who raises himself up so they are face to face. Father and son, who look so alike. If ever there was a chip off the ol' block physically, here is the perfect example. Kemble is looking at himself thirty-four years ago. There's his nose, his skin, his mouth. But there's more, because there,
also, is Teddy's resolve, his courage, his hurt, and those are the very things Kemble never showed his own parents at Teddy's age. Especially not his mother. Here is Kemble, looking at the very truth in his son's eyes. His parents never saw or heard that from him, and there was so much truth to tell. So much. That profound sliver of opportunity passed him by, and the weight of his cowardice back then has hung heavy on him ever since. He has nothing but admiration for this fine young man that he and Natalie have made, in this seminal moment. But much as he supremely despises the weakness in himself, he has a profound unease around strength in others. Even if that ‘other' is his own son. Kemble is too tired of himself to find the energy to support Teddy. Being real is exhausting, he thinks.

Ironically, Teddy is galvanized by the lack of steel he sees in his father, and calmly but firmly he says, ‘It's the lawyers tomorrow, I hope you're going to tell them we're better off living with her.'

Kemble tries to stare his son down, he glowers at him. This would usually work, but that's simply not happening today for some reason. Teddy stares right on back. Man to man.

For the first time ever.

Teddy chances it even further. ‘I said we're better off with her.'

Even Iva, with her back to them at the sink, has stopped still in her tracks to let this cockerel fight play out. Kemble so
desperately wants to tell his son that yes, he knows, he's right. Instead he slowly gets up and walks past him out of the kitchen.

Teddy sits down in Kemble's seat, shaking with shock. Every­thing and nothing has just happened, all inside a couple of sentences. If he lived in Southern Sudan, Teddy would be bearing three parallel bloody lines across his forehead right now, lacerated with a red hot knife by the local sorcerer to indicate his rite of passage into manhood.

Teddy lives in Manhattan. He gets a glass of apple juice poured by Iva, and a pat on his back. Good lad. Good man.

Rosie and the twins spend the whole morning getting stuck in to the garden.

Three has chalked out an area where he is carefully placing a circle of large pebbles he has collected from beach holidays with his grandparents and kept in his room in a box. Now he can see how to use them out in the open, Noguchi-style.

He has brought a bowl up from the kitchen, filled it with water and placed it in the centre of the stone circle. He stands back to look and quickly changes his mind about the positioning. He returns to the bowl and decides to move it a foot to the right, so that it's not dead centre. He stands back again, and is much more satisfied.

Rosie observes this from a distance and notes how precise and sophisticated a process this is. Three is really exploring his own aesthetics, learning what he prefers and making decisions and what's more, he has a really good eye. Somewhere in his deeper self, Three knows it too. He knows that he knows
something about this, whatever it is. He actually knows about shape and form and composition. He knows what pleases him. He knows for instance, that he would prefer these pebbles to be big rocks, taller than him, and that he'd like to bash them into the shapes he has in his head. Rounded and swirly shapes that wind back into the circle and make you think of spirals and shells and stairs and stars …

Red, on the other hand, is enjoying the earth under his finger­nails as they plant out the containers with compost. He is hungry for all the information Rosie is reading out from the books she bought. They are both learning about not using soil because it's too heavy and it dries out quickly, and could be full of weed seeds. They are learning about the ratio of the size of the plant to the size of the pot, about how to make sure the plant isn't in line with the top rim of the container, so that there's room to pour the water in without the whole thing overflowing.

They plant some tall bamboo, some geraniums for a bit of colour and some pink ice-plant to attract butterflies and bees when the time is right, later in the summer. Then, they plant lavender and rosemary and mint and sage, all together in one short fat wide container. They even plant a cactus they bought, and they use plenty of new swear words to curse it for having such spikey spines. Red leans his old Sheriff Woody doll up against the cactus and he revels in the funny, awkward positions the Sheriff finds himself in. Cactus up arse for instance,
is particularly hilarious. They lug the heavy containers around, placing them so that they make a cosy sitting area around the chairs.

Rosie has started a chanting game where she randomly starts off the ‘Dig Dig Dig' song that the seven Dwarves sing, the rule being that they have to sing it one word each in a roundelay, getting faster and faster until someone fails. That someone must then perform a dance for the entertainment of the others. Rosie is the worst at the game, so has already given her Kate Bush, her McHammer and her pitiful Michael Jackson Moonwalk. Three has given a surprisingly accomplished Beyoncé. Red hasn't been caught out yet …

After all their hard work they trudge back down to the kitchen for some grub. Rosie washes the dirt off all their hands under the running tap, while Iva dries them roughly with the kitchen towel. All the jollity stops abruptly when Glenn sweeps imperiously into the kitchen, ‘Thomas, Kemble, please finish what you're doing and come see me in the library immediately,' and she marches out.

The twins rarely hear their formal full names like that, and the fear of God is now suddenly in them.

Rosie can't imagine what could be so awful that they have to be frightened like this, but she wants to keep it all light, ‘OK guys, let's have a quick bite to eat. It may be your last ever meal, by the looks of it, so name yer poison … ice cream anyone?'

Whilst the twins are captive in the library with their scary
grandmother, Rosie returns to her rooms and sits down on her bed to mull over some of the beautiful gardening books. She needs to stay one step ahead of the boys to appear to know what she's doing. She turns to the pages which hold the plant names, so that she can compare them with the remaining seed packets she has left to plant.

There is a soft knock at the door. It's Teddy.

‘OK to come in for a sec?'

‘Yeah, sure,' she replies as she gets up from the bed and purposely relocates to the sofa. ‘Leave the door open, Teds.'

He enters sheepishly, moves further into the room a few paces at a time. ‘Hey.'

‘Hey.'

It's an uneasy pause that follows. Teddy is blushing, much to his mortification. He inspects his jumper closely and then grins at Rosie, ‘Bub-bubba-bub-bub …'

No hooter. Rosie laughs politely to make it easier for him. Teddy so wishes he could shut the door. He wants to gather her up … now now now. He reaches out his arm and tags his finger around her little finger.

Rosie smiles, but wriggles her finger free, and summoning her best courage, hopes she will find the right words. ‘Teds, look, I'm the first woman … the only woman …' she speaks in hushed tones, ‘that you've seen in the buff after ten o'clock, just keep that in mind …'

‘No Rosie, you don't get it, I love you.'

‘No, you don't!' she shuts the door. ‘You're grateful, hon, it's completely different. Seriously.'

‘But, no kidding, I feel, like, so … all over different today. I can say stuff I couldn't before. It's you, you've given me something … strength.'

‘I haven't, darlin'. You already had that strength. You were due to find it any day now.'

‘No.'

‘Yes. Listen. I'm not saying it was wrong, or horrible, Teds, it wasn't, it was bloody lovely, you're such a dreamboat. And it wasn't a mistake. But I AM saying that it won't happen again, OK?'

Teddy slowly nods like he understands, but then he looks her in the eye, and Rosie realizes he is trying to start the seduction technique again. He even licks his lips, ‘No, Teds, it's no good doing “the thing” again, it won't work … really.' She is amused though, and he sees this, so he starts to move towards her.

‘Come on, come on, come on …' he sings quietly.

‘No.' she says firmly.

‘We could still practice …?' he suggests cheekily, ‘after all, I want to get it right.'

‘You
do
get it right, Teddy, you really do. You've done the practice, it's time for the real thing – with a girl your own age.' He stares at her. She touches his cheek.

This really is it.

‘C'mon now, get lost, we don't want your type round these parts and I need to go and rescue your brothers from the guillotine …'

As Rosie approaches the library, she can hear the muffled end of the telling-off happening inside. Glenn is admonishing the twins in her best Judge Judy tones,

‘So, to be clear, and listen well both of you, I shan't be repeating this … if I ever hear another whisper from anyone that questions the moral fibre of
any
member of this family, there will be serious consequences. I kid you not. Look at this face, and remember the anger …'

Rosie knocks on the door and goes straight in, ‘Hello, just wondering how long you might be?'

‘Ah, Miss Kitto,' Glenn keeps it formal. ‘You might as well know that it has come to my attention via a source at the school that one of these boys …'

‘Your grandsons,' Rosie interjects,

Glenn stalls, annoyed, but then continues as if stung by a bee, ‘… my grandsons, yes, precisely, members of the Wilder-Bingham family … has been involved in a theft. Understandably this has sent shock waves through the school and now, through this house …'

‘Apartment …' Rosie corrects, as she once was corrected.

‘Through this house.' Glenn stands firm, and continues, ‘Neither of these two boys …'

‘Your grandsons …'

‘… These two boys has had the honour to step up and admit to it, they are rather pathetically covering for each other, so I'm afraid the punishment will have to fit the crime.'

‘I see,' says Rosie, turning to Red and Three, both of whom appear shell-shocked and have trembling lips where they are fighting back tears. ‘Might I ask what has actually been stolen?'

‘It doesn't matter what, it's a disgrace, and consequences will follow, especially since neither one has the spine to own up. So, no more garden today. They must sit and think about what they have done. No TV, no games, and there will be no treats for a week.'

‘Understood. Yes. This is very serious, I can see that. I can only assume the crime is major? What did you steal, boys? Gold bullion or perhaps precious jewellery or a car?'

Glenn flashes a furious face at her.

Red snuffles and mumbles, ‘It's a pen, and it's a mistake.'

Glenn is ruffled by the clear effort on Rosie's behalf to diminish the crime, ‘It is not simply a pen. It is a theft. It is a felony. Now, you are free to go and I look forward to hearing the truth at some point, when the two of you have mustered the courage to tell me. I will be informing your grandfather of this. Thank you.'

Rosie and the boys silently file out of the library, tails firmly between legs.

Within half an hour, Rosie and the twins emerge from the Canal Street subway and walk uptown on Centre Street. She has a plan. This is purposeful walking. Rosie strides along with a twin holding each hand. The mood is sombre, the boys are still bruised from the ear-bashing they've had from their grandmother.

They go up the steps of a large imposing civic building. Once inside they remove their coats and hats, their bags go through an x-ray machine and they are patted down by a guard in a bulletproof jacket as if they are at an airport. The central foyer of the building is high-ceilinged, with massive municipal lights hanging down in front of long windows which don't ever appear to have been washed. The grime is sticky on the windows, the ledges, the chains the lights dangle from, and on the very air itself. This grand sad echoey hall is gloomy and forbidding.

Rosie collects the wide-eyed twins to her. ‘Right, gather in, m'lads, and listen up. You are standing in the heart of New York City's criminal courts. This is where something called ‘arraignments' happen. After a person is arrested for, say, stealing … this is where they are brought. The judge listens to what the
crime is, and tells them if and when they will go on to a bigger court to decide if they have to go to jail. While they are waiting to find out, the judge can give a person something called bail, which means that the family will have to pay proper money to promise that person will definitely turn up, and if they don't the money is lost, gone forever. We are going to go and sit in a courtroom down there, and believe me, the judge won't look kindly on any pesky kid disturbing their court, so keep it schtum, look and listen, OK? Follow me …' and she sets off toward Arraignment Court No. 1, with the silent twins in tow.

They rush to keep up with her, striding up a long passage with mustard walls and wooden benches along each side. The benches are full of people waiting to go in to court. It's like a tunnel of damnation, one Dante would have been inspired to paint. Here and there are whole families, supporting their mum or dad or brother or sister. Many of the clusters of people have a policeman or woman accompanying them, or a lawyer in a worn, ill-fitting suit on the phone desperately calling someone, trying to fix this mess at the eleventh hour. Some people are alone, some are handcuffed, all appear haunted and tired. One man sits with his hands cuffed behind him, whilst he hangs his head, guarded by a solitary policeman who is chewing and checking his texts.

Somehow, here, this is normal. People on the edge of their lives, at the limit of their pain and at the finish of their hope are assembled here to face their consequences. It saddens
Rosie to the pit of her stomach that such a high proportion of these lost souls are black. How has this happened? What is going on in New York City that this can be so? Why should the baffled, the corrupt, the fallen, the raging and the vilified be predominantly one particular colour? The imbalance is stark and shocking, and she wonders if she has misjudged this decision. Perhaps Tom-peeping at the wreck of social order that's here is a graceless and rude thing to do.

Or maybe not. Maybe Red or Three will one day be part of a new generation who forge a different system that goes some way to changing this, if it offends or touches them enough. Maybe they can learn not to stand apart and judge, but instead to get involved and change. Maybe some of the young people here, at the centre of it all, learning how it works the hard way, will be the ones to stop the rot and make a difference. With each step, Rosie clings to these hopes for ballast, until at last they come to the huge wooden doors of Court No. 1, where a guard instructs them to turn off their phones and to keep quiet. In they go.

Rosie and the boys slide into seats three rows back from the front. Only one other family are sitting nearby. Rosie assumes these are the relatives of the next defendant, since they are in a scrum, speaking in hushed and hurried tones with an interesting-looking man who is clearly their attorney. He is a short chunky dapper chap in a subtly striped suit with a purple shirt and matching tie. He has long neat grey dreadlocks hanging
down his back to his waist and wears two sets of spectacles, one on his head and one on his intelligent face. He apparently has a hell of a
lot
of things to see. He has his hand on the arm of the weeping mother and seems to be reassuring her.

As they settle into their seats, the junior Wilder-Binghams and Rosie look about and take in everything in this unfamiliar daunting new environment. There is a barrier separating the observers in the gallery from the real court action which takes place in the front half of the lofty wood-panelled room, which clearly hasn't changed since it was built in the forties. The judge, a surprisingly attractive polished woman who looks to be in her early fifties, with a sharp flicky auburn bob and good tortoiseshell designer glasses, sits at the highest point in the room, behind a large wooden desk on a podium. Either side of her are two tall, drooped flags; one is the stars and stripes, the other is the flag of the State of New York, blue with fancy gold edging. Above her head, on the wall behind her is a large crest with an angry standing eagle and the words, ‘In God We Trust' emblazoned across it.